


Afterimages

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Earthquakes, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda?, M/M, Natural Disasters, Pining, Reboot, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, kinda???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-19 16:13:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: He makes his morning coffee, as he always does. Listlessly puts bread in the toaster. Retrieves the newspaper, scanning for signs and evidence that yes, Gotham knows that he is alive, that he is breathing. The skyline hums, reverbs with this confirmation.Hello, Edward Nygma.AU where Gotham is, quite literally, rebooted.





	Afterimages

**Author's Note:**

> this is where i the "reboot" aspect of the season 4 finale is taken too seriously. also a loose reference to the batman cataclysm arc.

Here's an age-old story.  
Do you want to hear it again?

The earth opens up, more like a flower. Fissures traverse up avenues and boulevards like lightning. It feels beautiful, final. These oscillations worming their way up under the ground, a seismic collision that none of them have seen before.

Jeremiah has succeeded in remaking Gotham in his image: destruction, total and complete. His hands have smashed the clay he was meant to work with. Skyscrapers fall from the sky. He must begin over again.

What Edward remembers is falling, tripping, the cement around him cracking. Oswald reaching for him. Eyes always seeking. And despite it all, he's glad to have him, to go out like this. Can't have one without the other, he thinks, when anxiety propels him towards Oswald's outstretched hand. Even in the darkness, his eyes search for his and their fingers brush, and-

He misses it. They both go plummeting into the deep tunnels of dirt and soil. Beneath the city, past the subway, lurching into a vast and cavernous space. His stomach lurches, and the rest of his body follows suit. All he can think is _Oswald, what have I done_ , before the dark takes over and he can't tell if he's awake or asleep, alive or dead. This must be what Purgatory is like, the sensation of falling and falling and having it never stop. Wondering when it will. It feels less like he's been sent beneath the earth, and more like he's been propelled off of it, past the stratosphere and into the vastness of space. There are no stars here, however, and that is all that reminds him that he will find no refuge in this dark vacuum. He laughs into the emptiness, alone.

* * *

Edward Nygma wakes up, as if from a bad dream. He vaguely remembers screeching, human and not, from his sleep, but all of that fades into the fogginess of the late morning.

He is twenty-eight. He is a career criminal. He remembers these things with a growing clarity.

How could he forget his own life, after all?

He makes his morning coffee, as he always does. Listlessly puts bread in the toaster. Retrieves the newspaper, scanning for signs and evidence that yes, Gotham knows that he is alive, that he is breathing. The skyline hums, reverbs with this confirmation. _Hello, Edward Nygma._

The paper tells him a new club is opening. This is the headline. There is a picture of the owner outside of his establishment.

The man seems familiar. Everything about him is painfully decadant, dangerous, from the glint of his teeth to the raven black hair. Pristine, maintained, like an old-fashioned dandy. Yes, dangerous, from the shine of his shoes to the carnation on his boutonniere. The black on the newsprint does not do him justice.

Everything comes back with a force that would put natural disasters to shame. He almost spills his drink. Oswald. The earthquake pales in comparison to this. Tears himself apart. He begins to cry in a way that he can't ever remember.

* * *

He walks into the Iceberg Lounge in a haze. It looks nothing like it should, he registers. A different location. A different Gotham, of course. It is huge, sprawling, lights shining on diamond rings and sequined dresses. Flutes of champagne handed out by girls and boys in tuxedo outfits, meticulously styled.

Edward looks and he does not find him. His eyes scour the room. He tries to traverse through the crowds of people, hoping to find Oswald as soon as he can. He can't shock him too bad, though. The fear that the sight of him will knock him off-kilter follows him in his search.

He does not find him, but a sound comes from the stage. Edward turns around, and there he is, front and center, behind the microphone. He looks happy, Edward realizes. It's opening night.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends, celebrities from around the world." He smiles, and the crowd laughs at his joke, like puppets, in unison. 'My name is Oswald Cobblepot. Here we are at last!" He can't stop them from clapping, but it looks like he doesn't want to, even as he feigns shyness. "It is with deep and sincere pleasure that I bid you welcome to the official grand opening of my newest night-spot, the Iceberg Lounge."

He steps off the stage and into the waiting, living arms of the crowd. They surround him, nesting against this beautiful man. Edward suddenly feels so, so far away.

It's like time reversed and the glass put itself back together again. There are no ugly, jagged edges on this Oswald. He is pristine, clean, a monument to perserverence and determination. No bullet holes in him, he's sure. Unbroken. Perhaps both of their wounds are gone, now that he can no longer hear the Riddler. Somehow, he feels less whole this way. Like an afterimage of what Oswald is supposed to be.

This lounge is a palace, multi-tiered, ceilings high and mighty. The alcohol seems to flow from every nook and cranny. There's a pool. Real penguins, real seals. An art deco imitation of the arctic. This is everything his Oswald wanted and could not have.

Eventually the crowd disperses from him somewhat, or at least, enough for Ed to sneak up behind Oswald. He does cut a fine figure, all white tie and carefully styled hair. The kind of meticulous showmanship a real entrepreneur would have.

There he is: the impossible object.

"You were in love with me once."

His mouth quirks into an annoyed, polite smile. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else."

"Oswald," he begs.

"Yes, that is my name."

"You have to remember me, don't you? It's me, Edward. Nygma."

A flash of understanding comes across his features. Edward's heart pumps violently. "Oh, yes, you're the Riddler, right?" Laughs. "They did tell me you were quite the narcissist." But it is a joke, and he seems understanding. The kind of warmth that was beat out of him in their last life.

He falls again, and it feels like lurching back through the earth. "No, I-"

"Let me get you a drink, friend." Oswald winks, and it sends something directly up his spine.

He fidgets while Oswald is gone. Separation anxiety. He returns with two cocktails, a mojito and a martini. Hands him a sprig of mint, an olive branch.

No. This is not like last time. They're in the wrong place, but he can say the right thing. "Time's only souvenir, I can bring back the dead. I can move you to emotion, fondness, but my home is in your head. What am I?"

Oswald's lips quirk back into a smile. "Is this a riddle?" Edward blinks. "Are you asking me one of those infamous riddles?" He's too giddy. Not put-off. It's all wrong. This Oswald is open, so sure of himself that he knows Ed isn't a threat. There's no teeth.

Ed nods his head. _I'm asking you for so much more I'm asking you to let me be yours again I'm asking you to go back home with me help me find ours._

He hums. "A memory?"

"Yes," he pleads, "you really don't remember me?"

Oswald laughs, high and keening. "I would've remembered meeting you before, friend. But I am so glad to finally have the pleasure."

They shake hands. The touch alone is enough to wound Edward.

* * *

He comes back every single night. He talks with Oswald and waits. The universe is on its unceasing course towards entropy, towards chaos. He only has so little time before it reaches this critical mass, this aching ending, that he needs Oswald to remember as soon as possible.

(A mobius loop. Is there another Jeremiah out there, beneath the earth? Or is he already above, in the sky, planting bombs? Those who cannot learn from history, they say.)

Even now, he can feel some Valeskian entity pushing them towards absolute disorder. Heat death will follow when there is no work able to be done, no process to free them.

He begins his own work, while he still can.

Like a suitor. Their second courtship. Edward brings him words and company and Oswald smiles at him like he's known him, hasn't known him better than this.

"Doesn't it feel lonely, to be your own person?" Edward pleads, Oswald studying him in the dark. "Ever since I found you again, it's like I realized a part of me has been missing. No. Like a part of me had been stolen a long time ago." Like healing an old wound. The Riddler is no more than a phantom pain to him now. He's all alone.

"Edward..."

"Ed," he says. "You have to remember something," his voice breaks, desperation seeping through. "I remember more now. I bought you Chinese when you were hurt. You were the mayor, and I was your assistant. I shot you when you loved me-"

"That's enough." Oswald's voice edges into that dangerous place.

He can't stop now, though. "I loved you back." His voice is small now, quieter than possible. "I loved you terribly, but I did love you. You can't go now."

Oswald frowns, shoves him off when his hand clutches his own too tightly. An anger in his eye that he hadn't seen since Oswald had wanted him dead. He wonders if that's what he wants now.

"Leave," his voice full of all the arrogance he deserves. "You're not as interesting as I thought you'd be. You're just _strange_." Bookends, Edward thinks as he stands there, stunned, throat tight. He feels the same as he did that first time in the GCPD, in a different reality.

They've circled back. Maybe if they start in the right place this time- No.

He doesn't recognize either of them. An Oswald without love, and an Edward deprived of it.

A mobius loop indeed. Their positions are reversed now.

Edward was not a man that believed in hell, but this came close. A universe where he pays for all of his mistakes, plays the minor character. Hell is a lilac chaser. There used to be so much purple, and now, he only sees an instance of green, chasing itself.

* * *

He is a fascination and a torment. Tantallizing. From Tantalus: the fruit just out of reach, the water sinking just in time.

But now, even Sisyphus prays for his suffering to end. Even Prometheus pities him.

He's heard the term revictimization before.

Here he is, the breathing effigy. Flaws magnified before the jury. A play on repeat. He performs every night.

* * *

"Edward," Oswald frowns distastefully. He knows he looks frazzled. A walking wreck. And there is the man he loves, exquisite, surrounded by men as well-dressed as him. It makes his stomach revolt. He'd wage wars against reality for this man, and yet, the worst of it is against himself. "What do you want?"

"Come with me," he begs. He expects rejection, but instead, Oswald blinks curiously, sets his wine glass down and excuses himself.

Ed leads him to the balcony, one of the only secluded spots he knows of. Oswald stares him down owlishly when he ignores him to look at the skyline instead. It's so different now. "Edward? What did you want to tell me?"

Somehow, he's speechless when he looks at Oswald again. Here, illuminated by the moon and city lights, he looks like some shivering apparition, hair cascading as another breeze blows over them. Before he can speak again, Edward takes his face in his hands and kisses him. He tastes different, this Oswald, like cigars and port wine.

He parts and expects some backlash, but Oswald just watches him, brings a hand up to touch the corner off his lips where Ed's mouth had been. Finally, he says, "I assumed you were a good kisser."

Edward is certainly aware of the cold now. However ironic, the Iceberg Lounge was much warmer. "I hope I didn't disappoint."

He gets a hum in return, as if Oswald is lost in thought. "I suppose I'll need more experimentation before I reach a verdict."

The jury rises, the judge sits down.

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. That's what keeps Oswald from expelling him, pushing him over the balcony. That is enough, for now.

They kiss again, and oh, how funny that this is Oswald's first kiss with him, but not Edward's. Paradox seeps behind his teeth. This Oswald is more assured, not cautious and loving, chasing after Edward with a coy sensibility. This Oswald takes what he wants, which isn't much.

* * *

He does not believe in redemption.

If he comes back, again and again, it's for the sense of starving.

* * *

Oswald seeks him out when the work is too hard and too long. He is always there, waiting, arms outstretched as if to say _here, I won't fail you again, I'll catch you this time,_  in case he remembers.

"Why me?" Indeed, why him. There is no equal footing here" Oswald is on a pedestal, and everytime he tries to climb up to him, he loses his standing.

He shrugs. "Something about you draws me in, as much as I hate to admit it." He lights a cigarette. It sickens him, to see Oswald sicken himself. "I am possessed by you."

Oh, how he wishes that were true.

* * *

 He plays the part he was cast in, since it appeases Oswald. He can pretend to be stranger well, whatever that means to Oswald. Whether it be "weirder" or "foreigner." He doesn't mention them, what they were and weren't, as often. As long as he can sit next to him, he is afforded some kind of contentment.

Is this how Oswald felt? So close and so inconceivably far?

He misses kissing him with the weight of knowing upon him, with all their mistakes and accolades. He swirls his drink around, jaw tight, high-strung like a violin.

Leave it to Oswald to notice.

"You seem upset, old friend." Ever sensitive. He had left to get another bottle of wine for the two of them. It is later in the night, and the band plays on, even as people trickle out. Not crowded, but not alone.

Edward smiles, looks up. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Edward..."

"It's Ed," he looks back down. His eyes sting again. He doesn't dare look back at Oswald. He knows it won't end well if he does, if he looks that little last grasp he has on him will dissolve. Like poison in a drink.

Oswald is quiet for a moment, and then says, so softly, "is this about what you keep telling me again? About me not remembering you?"

His lips tighten, and he stares so hard at the table, tries to focus on how the light bounces off of it. It doesn't help. He blinks, and tears immediately fall. He nods.

That's it. He'll leave. He's so sure of it, can't bring himself to look up and see how disappointed Oswald is, but instead the man grabs his hand, runs a thumb over the back of it. "Come to my office," he whispers, so loving. Edward almost forgets everything else that happened.

The walk there is a haze, a flurry of stairs and the sharp sound of Oswald's cane. He only comes to when he's sitting in the chair across from Oswald's desk.

Oswald, glass of whiskey on his desk, eyes him. More hawk than penguin, more vulture than hawk. "How did this happen, then?"

Edward swallows. Glasseyed, he makes an attempt. "There was an earthquake. It's fuzzy, but- we fell. Me and you. All of us. We fell through the cracks." He hadn't noticed how he'd started tearing up, but he pushes his fingers to his eyes, sniffing. "We were reaching for each other." He recomposes. "Jeremiah did it. I haven't seen him here, but I know him. He destroyed Gotham. We didn't make it out. I thought we were going to die."

When the world comes back into focus, he sees Oswald frowning. Sympathetic, thank God. He reaches a hand across his desk, seeking. "Edward, I'm sorry, but... We need to get you help."

Edward takes his hand graciously, and laughs. He doesn't stop laughing. "I needed help then. If you remembered... I was more than one person then. I saw things. Now it's like everything's clear to me, but no one else sees it." Then again. "You made me sane then, you made me sane now."

"Edward I... I don't know how to help you..."

"Ed," he corrects. "It's okay, Oswald. You can still always count on me." His smile breaks.

Oswald's eyebrows furrow, and them his eyes widen, mouth a perfect O. Edward is about to ask what's wrong, when his hand tightens on his, squeezing harder than ever. "Ed," Oswald breathes. "Ed, I- You and I, we, then-"

"Yes," Edward interrupts. "Yes, _yes_ , I know." Hand still connected to Oswald's, trying to give him the relief he needs. Whispers, "it feels like falling again, doesn't it?"

Oswald nods, trance overtaking and then descending. " _God_. What happened? How did things get like- like this, or whatever happened?"

Ed hums, thumb pressing down. "I don't know. But we're together now, right?"

"I need another drink," Oswald says, suddenly. Hobbles over to the bar again. Reaches for a glass, then thinks better of it, and takes the whole bottle with him.

"I know it's a lot to take in," Edward murmurs as Oswald sits in the chair next to him, instead of across, fingers digging into his eye sockets. "It hit me pretty hard, too."

Oswald's hand does not leave his as he downs a drink. "It's ridiculous. It's so hard to remember everything." He knows what he means, as much as it doesn't make sense. That he knows their past life with such clarity, remembers it, but it's hard to reconcile this oldness with this newness. Too much to keep inside of you.

He doesn't mean to, but Edwars keeps staring at him. Just watches him. Oswald eventually notices, blinking, asking, "what?"

His throat closes up and he begins to tear up again. "I just- I just missed you."

"Oh, oh Edward-" There's a realization as Oswald pulls Edward close to him, and he can't help it, he is shuddering and crying. Oswald soothes a hand over his back, like he always did, always does. "I can't imagine how hard it must've been on you, my dearest."

"I missed you calling me that," he blubbers, and Oswald just continues to hold him, to press his fingers across his aching body. Oswald hums that song, his mother's song- the one that does not exist here, where they exist.

Oswald keeps him there until his breathing steadies, no longer coming out in wet, shivery motions. He pulls back and smiles at Edward brightly. Happier than he had seen him since he'd woken up. "There, beloved, is that better?" Ed nods. Even if it is too much, it is better. He is overloaded with Oswald's love, trying to soak it all up before someone drains it out of him again. Oswald frowns, suddenly. "I treated you horribly."

"No, no, no no Oswald." Ed leans forward, chases him. "You did what you had to. Needed to. You followed the script you were given." It does little to console him, and Oswald continues to lean back, eyes fixated downwards. "I love you," Ed says, quickly. "If I had to do this a thousand more times, I would. Just to be with you."

Oswald presses his lips together, seemingly unconvinced, but pulls Edward to him again. "Don't leave again."

And yes, this is his Oswald, he can tell from the way he presses kisses into the junction of his shoulder and neck, all rough around the edges and pained. He sighs into his touch. "Never. I won't miss your hand this time."

Something about that pains Oswald, what with the way his arms tighten around him. But he is there, and they are there, and that is all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> i will never be satisfied with this but i needed to stop sitting on it and post it so. here. ciao.


End file.
